A Private Duel with Agent Gunn (The Gentlemen of Scotland Yard)

by Stone, Jillian

  After losing Cate at the train station he had made his way to 4 Whitehall and found Zeno Kennedy behind his desk with his chair tilted back. The detective had glanced over the top of the Manchester Guardian and lowered the paper. “Let me guess—she took the bait.”

  “All twenty thousand.”

  Kennedy listened intently as Finn recounted the chase from Hatton Garden to St. Pancras station. “France is a big country. I thought I’d stop by and see if you chaps have anything new on Los Tigres.” He slouched into a seat and stretched out his legs. “Her wire was addressed to a Claude Abeilard, Giverny, France.” His gaze absently followed the cracks in the ceiling plaster. “There’s something about Spanish anarchists hiding outside Paris—doesn’t exactly sound right, not when they would so easily disappear in the Latin Quarter.”

  Zeno plucked a file from a tall stack. “This report came over from the Foreign Office yesterday—appears to be chock-full of NID intelligence.” The Yard man leafed through the pages. “Nothing on Los Tigres by name. An illegal arms shipment was confiscated in Le Havre bound for London.”

  Finn pinched the bridge of his nose. “Not really their style. Anything else?”

  Zeno turned a few pages. “Something here, perhaps. Two prisoners, both of them bound for Devil’s Island.”

  “What’s so special about them?”

  “Country of origin: Spain. No records.”

  “They’re in prison, aren’t they? There must be records, arrests, trials, convictions?”

  The detective flipped over the page. “According to the writer of this report, that is what makes these prisoners all the more intriguing.”

  Finn grunted. “Wouldn’t be the first time the Frogs imprisoned anarchists without due process. The anonymity could indicate the men are high profile. Where are they being held?”

  “In an old fortress known as the Citadel—converted to a prison ages ago—on Île de Ré, an island off La Rochelle.” Kennedy glanced up from the file. “You say Miss Willoughby took the train to Dover?”

  Finn leaned forward in his chair. “As an exercise, let’s say Miss Willoughby got off the Dover train and doubled back to Waterloo station.”

  Kennedy’s mouth twitched. “Where she caught a train to Portsmouth.”

  “Once there, she books passage to Le Havre or Cherbourg—and on to La Rochelle.” There were instincts one developed in the espionage business. Usually it was just an inkling—a niggling hunch. This one buzzed up and down his spine like a bolt of electricity. “Shall we hazard a speculation? The twenty thousand is intended for bribes. A prison official looks the other way . . .”

  Finn stood up. “I’ll need an assignment.” He and Zeno worked out his cover story and scratched off something on letterhead that looked official. Zeno included a couple of international arrest warrants for good measure.

  Detective Kennedy had sat back in his chair. “Stay in touch by wire office. Meanwhile, I’ll meet with Saunders at the Foreign Office, and Hall at NID—see if I can get you names for those warrants.”

  Finn had spent the last night in Portsmouth and caught the early morning ferry to Cherbourg. Dutifully, upon arrival in France, he penned a brief message to 77 St. Bride Street, the unofficial wire office for Scotland Yard.

  He stabled MacGregor and found a reasonably clean hotel dockside. A brief look at the harbor registry showed a cargo ship set to leave on the eventide for La Rochelle. The clerk in the harbor master’s office had seemed confident Finn could book passage. Purchasing a local map, he found a café featuring mussels steamed in a curried broth. Halfway into his second plate, he had remembered the Clouzot brothers and reopened the map.

  At the top of a rise, he now slowed MacGregor. Finn blinked through a drizzle of rain. The storm had passed for the most part, leaving a bit of blustery wind. He could just make out the silhouette of a crenellated parapet. Lights blazed from a rounded turret, and Finn had to smile at the welcome sight. Perhaps this was still a good idea. With any luck, he could hitch a ride to La Rochelle with Aurélien and Gilbert Clouzot.

  * * *

  CATE REQUESTED THE small table at the back of the dining room. “The one by the window, s’il vous plâit.”

  “Très bon, mademoiselle. Suivez-moi.”

  She took her seat, smoothing the swath of fabric that ended in a bow above her bustle. A grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. The money pouch was hidden in the frame above her derriere. Safe enough, for now. Her most recent instructions had been clear enough: Check into L’Hôtel De Ville. Wait to be contacted.

  A cup of hot coffee would help shake off the damp chill. The steaming rich liquid would likely keep her up for hours, but she wished to stay vigilant. Or was she just trying to avoid disturbing nightmares?

  There was no doubt in her mind that he would come after her—drat the man. Where exactly Finn might be at the moment, she could only wager a guess. Calais, perhaps, if she had managed to steer him off course. And if she hadn’t? She pictured him by her side—on her side, even—and stirred a splash of steamed milk into her cup. Might there be a chance of that?

  At least her room at the hotel was pleasantly bright, with a view to the harbor. After coffee and sustenance, she would return and unpack a few things, toiletries and a change of—A tapping noise came from the window beside her table. Cate turned toward the glass and nearly jumped out of her seat.

  A smallish, reed-thin man leaned against the arched curve of the arcade. A gas lantern sputtered above, illuminating parts but not all of his face. In the flickering light he appeared more goblin than human. Hunched-over shoulders supported a largish head and a prominent, hooked nose. Small black eyes peered at her intently.

  As she sat mesmerized by a sight dredged from darker childhood tales, the odd fellow reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded blue paper—the kind the wire services used. Thin lips on a wide-set mouth stretched into an approximate grin.

  Cate looked away and sipped her coffee. A new message delivered by a gargoyle. She lifted her chin, and turned back to signal the odd fellow to come inside.

  Gone.

  She craned her neck and peered up and down the covered walkway. Easing back in her chair, she felt her stomach rumble. Sea travel always ravaged her stomach, and she hadn’t eaten anything for . . . how long was it? More than a day, certainly. She supposed it was possible she had hallucinated the strange character.

  Cate caught the eye of the waiter and asked about the dinner fare. She decided on the curried oyster bisque and Coquilles Saint-Jacques. Once her meal arrived, her sensitive stomach forgot about the unusual chap, or troll, or whatever he was.

  She sopped up every drop of soup, using chunks of crusty bread. “M-m-mm,” she sighed upon finishing off the last bite. Next came the delicately flavored scallops in a rich cheese sauce. Every morsel disappeared—including the luscious dessert, a chocolate caramel mousse. She scraped her spoon along the edge of the parfait glass, fully satisfied and duly impressed with the cuisine of the café.

  “Excusez-moi, mademoiselle?”

  She looked up into black beady eyes.

  A nervous-looking waiter hovered close by.

  Cate lifted the serviette from her lap and brushed the sides of her mouth. She nodded to the café worker. “Quite all right, I believe monsieur—the gentleman—has a message for me.

  Hat in hand, the odd character settled into a chair opposite and ordered himself a glass of wine. Not quite as threatening up close, until he sat, pulled out the envelope, and placed it on the table. The tips of three fingers on his right hand were made of metal. Fascinated, Cate leaned closer and squinted. “Are those . . .”

  “Thimble fingers.” The homely man shrugged.

  Her gaze moved to the note on the table. “This is for me?” She opened the wire message. Two lines. Encoded. She would have to wait to decipher the message in her room. The telegram was addressed to the harbor office at La Rochelle, care of—she suspected—this man. “You have a name, then, bes
ides Thimble Fingers?”

  “I am called Dé Riquet. The accent makes the—”

  “The word for thimble.” Cate folded up the wire. “Clever, but not your real name, I suspect?”

  Rodent-like eyes lowered. “It is not my preference.”

  The waiter brought the glass of wine. “Will there be anything else, mademoiselle?”

  “Un autre café, s’il vous plaît.” There would be no sleeping tonight. How could she sleep with characters like this one skulking about?

  The faint clink of metal fingertips on his wineglass drew her gaze. She reached across the table and gently traced over the metal tips. Silver thimbles that had been refashioned as delicate, dangerous claws. Fascinated, her gaze connected with the reedy gent in front of her. “Tell me, Dé Riquet, how did this happen?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Cate distinctly heard a wheezing exhale from the creature. A sigh, perhaps? She supposed her question tried his patience more than caused any pain.

  Silver tips stroked the side of his wineglass. “In my youth, I scratched out a living as a petty thief and pickpocket. One day a shopkeeper caught me stealing. The man was a dealer in antiquities, rare artifacts, the occasional mechanical toy.

  “He dragged me back into his shop and held my hand under a handsome, working replica of a guillotine.” The wiry little man struck the table with such force the cups and glasses rattled.

  Cate swallowed. “How awful. What deplorable, cruel treatment of a child.”

  Dé Riquet tilted his head and studied her, as though evaluating how much to reveal. “Business partners can often be less forgiving than perfect strangers. The man had bought many items from me, no questions asked.” He tipped the wine to his lips. “Do you have the ransom?”

  She had followed her instructions to the letter, with one exception. The money was not as large as the demand note, but it would have to be enough. She was prepared to bluff her way through the first meeting and then, given assurances, she’d deliver the twenty thousand. Cate raised her chin along with an eyebrow. “Do you have my brother?”

  * * *

  “ENTREZ!” THE FAMILIAR voice welcomed. An attractive young housemaid showed Finn into a library crammed floor to ceiling with books. A six-foot model of an airship hung suspended over a reading table covered with reference tomes, charts, and technical instruments.

  “Look what the storm blew in. And he’s dripping all over my clean floors,” the maid declared.

  Gilbert poked his head over a pile of volumes. “There’s a clean spot somewhere on the floor? Do point that one out to me, Inez.”

  The girl mumbled a retort. “I suppose we must feed the monsieur as well.”

  “We all need feeding, Inez. Must I remind you again to have cook pluck another chicken?”

  The young maid huffed, and pivoted on her heel. Finn hooted under his breath. “Testy.”

  His friend shrugged, sheepishly. “Pretty.”

  “Very.” He smiled. “Hello, Gilbert.”

  “We’ve been expecting you, Finn.”

  “I’m almost afraid to ask, but how is it possible you knew I was in France, let alone headed for your humble little plot?”

  “Bonsoir, Phineas! Come up and have a look.” The call came from high above. Aurélien waved from a balcony railing. The library opened onto the turret room. An iron staircase spiraled upward, hugging curved walls. Above an iron deck, a glass cupola capped the tower. The dome was made up of curved panes that looked much like the sections of an orange.

  Finn craned his neck. “Good God, is that what I think it is?”

  Gilbert waved him ahead and they both climbed the stairs. The telescope was the largest he’d ever seen outside of the twelve-and-three-quarter-inch Merz at the Royal Observatory.

  Finn stepped onto the observation deck and whistled. Gilbert cranked open a glass section of the dome. The tubular body itself must have reached fifteen feet in length, counterbalanced by framework that extended far below the iron work floor. Aurélian helped Finn into the specially rigged chair at the end of the telescope and showed him how to adjust the eyepiece. “Voilá! The clouds have parted just for you, my friend.”

  Finn watched spellbound as the waxing half-moon moved past the lens within a brief few seconds. “Can you keep this thing steady?”

  When both brothers chuckled, Finn looked up. “What?”

  “That is the moon doing the traveling.” Aurélien adjusted the telescope and showed Finn the lever at the side of his seat. “The moon travels at rate of 2,288 miles per hour. But to be exact, you must also figure in the Earth’s rotation at our latitude adding another 735 miles per hour.”

  Finn practiced raising the handle and turning the wheel until he easily tracked with the moon’s trajectory. He spent the next half hour examining the giant, pocked orb, learning the names of the craters, among other lay observations, until—a shiver ran down his spine and his heart raced for a moment. “Reminds me of the desolate terrain around Kandahar.”

  Gilbert shook his head. “With no atmosphere, much worse!”

  He exhaled a slow, controlled breath. His fleeting memory of Afghanistan had come and gone without a full-blown attack of nerves. “You blokes tracked me from Cherbourg with this?” Finn tore his eyes off the moon and stars.

  Gilbert pointed to a smaller telescope at a retractable window facing west. “We receive strange deliveries daily and odd visitors.” Aurélien closed several of the dome-shaped sections of window. “Present company always welcome.”

  “So you keep a watchful eye on the road.”

  To describe the Clouzot brothers as reclusive was apt, but not entirely accurate. They were stridently protective of their work and their privacy. They were also distrustful—bordering on raving mad—of all governments, including their own. He had once been a party to a rather lengthy argument on the subject. “Governments,” Aurélien had insisted, “made promises of great wealth, then trapped inventors into making war machinery.” A head full of dark curls had bobbed, along with a grin. “We make love, not war.”

  But if the Clouzots trusted you, and you appreciated scientific discussion, you were in for a rare treat. In fact, Finn had so enjoyed his visit thus far, he quite forgot to mention the reason he was here. He cleared his throat. “I have a favor to ask of you both.”

  “Le dîner est servi, messieurs.”

  The call came from below and Gilbert started down the stairs. “I’m famished.”

  “When are you not?” Aurélien snorted. “Come, Finn, you can ask your favor at supper.”

  He explained as much about the situation with Cate and Los Tigres Solitarios as the Clouzot brothers needed to know. “Scotland Yard isn’t certain how deeply the young lady is involved with the anarchists but I mean to find out.”

  Aurélian separated a chicken leg from a roasted bird. “And this is the same young lady you mooned over the last time you were with us?”

  Finn forked up a succulent piece of dark meat and turned to the other brother. “I don’t recall mooning over the chit. Was I mooning?”

  “You must clarify for us. This is the same girl whose brother was killed in a dynamite explosion.” Gilbert sat back in his chair and rolled his eyes upward. “Granted, by some of his own contraband, but nonetheless, I believe his death made it impossible for you and the young woman to further your . . . interaction.”

  A strong gust of wind rustled treetops and rattled the roof tiles above. He would rather not think about that word, impossible. Finn’s stare moved from one brother to the other. “I need the Air Commander.”

  “Strong air currents often follow storms this time of year.” Gilbert waved a crispy pomme frite in the air. “There is an old saying about the mistral: it’s a brutish, onerous wind that can blow the ears off a donkey.”

  Aurélien nodded. “The winds cross France from the northwest to the Mediterranean. Such a gale will give us cloudless skies tomorrow and luminous sunshine. We could make La Rochelle in several
hours, yes?”

  “Easily.”

  “Even better.” Finn tried for a beseeching look. “So, will you or won’t you? Either way, I’ll need to leave for La Rochelle first thing in the morning—by sea or by air.”

  Gilbert leaned back in his chair and tilted his head. “I shall have to consult with my brother.”

  Aurélian poured Finn another glass of wine. “Much depends on how you answer the next question.”

  He felt a trap coming and narrowed his gaze. “All right, gentlemen, fire away.”

  “You do this thing—hunt down the lovely dancer . . .” Aurélian held up his glass. “For love or country?”

  Gilbert raised both brows and added a grin.

  Finn tilted his chair onto its back legs and consulted the number of tomes stacked in the shelves lining the walls. It seemed books served double duty in this quaint, if not eccentric little manse. Stacked on hearth mantels and on chair seats, they served as doorjambs, elbow rests, and, when piled high enough, table pedestals. Even the candelabra sat upon a large atlas.

  A glance at the leather-bound spines read like the missing scrolls of Alexandria’s library. One might easily draw the conclusion, based on the number of tomes, odd contraptions, unwieldy machines, and strange drawings, that the Clouzot brothers were mad savants. And they were so irritatingly . . . French.

  Finn ran a hand through his hair. “You really insist on knowing?”

  * * *

  CATE STIFLED A yawn. It was late, and Dé Riquet was not offering up much in the way of information. After a good long squint at him, she suspected he was not that old. His coat, worn thin in spots, showed signs of mending in numerous places. His Van Dyke beard was patchy at best. And his hair, loosed from under a battered opera hat, turned out to be a wild mass of unruly tangles. Had he been a more winsome chap, and ten years younger, she might have described Dé Riquet as a youth in dire need of a mother.